


trouble is my business

by vowelinthug



Series: BLACK SAILS NOIR [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 20:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: The brim of his hat digs into Silver’s ear for a quick second before Silver takes it off and drops it on the floor, too. Then his arms come up around him. “Hey, daddy, is that your revolver in your trousers or are you just happy to see me?”“It’s my Pocket Hammerless.”Silver tsks. “I know a fellow who came back from Verdun like that,” he says. “War is hell.”--Flint manages to keep his business open for a whole four hours before it all goes to shit. Part 3, with actual plot, of the NOIR au





	trouble is my business

**Author's Note:**

> if you see something in here that isn't period accurate - do NOT tell me, i'm very fragile about that
> 
>  
> 
> [BEAUTIFUL ART BY SHADOW-MAGNET](http://shadow-magnet.tumblr.com/post/174808713676/trouble-is-my-business-the-brim-of-his-hat-digs)

* * *

 

_August 10, 1928_

 

Flint remembers the first lie Silver ever told him. He remembers it when those steel door slam down behind him. He remembers it when Eleanor’s got her little, ivory-handled pistol aimed right between his eyes. He remembers Silver’s lie.

They’d been in the car, because Silver had shown up to the club the next morning, just like Flint had told him to. But Flint had taken one first good look at him in the daylight and had hustled him right into his Packard to go back to his apartment for some privacy. He had slept funny the night before, lying on the couch in his office, a taste sticking to his teeth like shoe paste — salt from the sea air, the scorpion sting of Silver’s swill, and something else — something odd and out of place in the dark, that he must have pinched right off Silver’s tongue.  

Silver had clued him in to that particular taste when he’d leaned back in the wide passenger seat of Flint’s car, spread himself out like a Chinese fan, and stuck a cube of bright pink chewing gum into his mouth. He’d crumpled up the waxy joke paper without reading it, eyes on Flint, lips smacking.

And then, the lie. “This’ll be a piece of cake,” he’d said.

They’d had something of a two-bit, cheap honeymoon after that, at some point or another both of them forgetting all about business, lawlessness, and the world altogether. Their only concern had been cigarettes, chop suey, and how much sweat they could manufacture between them. In the middle of it all, Flint had been able to stick his head back on for a minute to call Billy the Bones and get their distillery all set up, before removing his head once more and tossing it over his shoulder, then wrapping himself around Silver like rosary beads in the hands of a dying man.

But then Billy had turned up with the keys to some factory, and an army of men looking to work. He’d nearly slammed the door in his face before Silver had quietly reminded him they were low on scratch for food, and completely out of cigarettes.

Now that the distillery is up and running, Flint sees less of Silver. He’s up to his elbows in rye grain day and night, and it takes Flint an unfortunate amount of time to figure out that Silver is teaching himself how to make liquor in something that isn’t a bathtub. It’s only worrying if he voices it out loud, so he doesn’t.

He enlists some of the boys to help out once it looks like he’s finally ready to start manufacturing it in larger quantities. Flint stops by a week later to find them — tough, no-bullshit birds, too — following SIlver around like bloodthirsty ducklings, He’d thought Silver might be too much of a wiseguy to endear them, too green and mouthy, but once again Flint had underestimated him. Silver is green in the same way poison is green.

Flint spends his alone time getting the club ready to open again. He’s got to get the word out, after all. The Walrus will be about as dry as the Atlantic soon enough, but it’s not like he can hang up flyers down by the boardwalk. It requires some finesse, a few sly murmurs into the plastic of a phone receiver, before he’s sure his grand re-opening won’t be a total bust.

For the first time in a long time, Flint’s excited about the job. It feels good, to have a business he could trust again, something to be proud of. No more watered down shit to keep the doors open just a little longer. For the first time in awhile, everything feels upright.

The work is good, and distracting, so when BIlly the Bones sticks his head in through Flint’s door and says, “Eleanor Guthrie is back from the Bahamas,” Silver’s lie is the first thing he thinks of.

He thinks it again when Billy says she wants to meet with Flint that evening. He hasn’t seen her since the night he met Silver, when his product — on Eleanor’s ship — got itself picked up by the Coast Guard. Piece of fucking cake.

He goes down to the distillery first, for no particular reason. The booze production has stopped, and the boys are busy bottling and packing everything to store. Brewing carries a harder sentence than moving and selling, which makes about as much sense as anything else the government does. Since he’s got no worries about selling to anyone but his customers, he hopes to only have to brew when his own stock runs low.

He finds Silver in his own little office at the back of the factory. He’s been sleeping there whenever he found time to sleep. He hasn’t told Flint anything about where he’d been laying his hat before he ambushed Flint in the alley of a soda parlor, but he guesses it’s not a place Silver pines for.

Silver’s frowning down at some paperwork, slouched low on an already slouching purple couch. He’s wearing his suspenders over a dirty undershirt, cigarette hanging from his lips, but the furrow between his eyes vanishes like a badly bought alibi when Flint comes in.

“I didn’t know you were stopping by tonight,” he says instead of _hello_ , dropping his splintering clipboard on the floor. He starts to rise from the couch.

“No,” says Flint, “don’t get up on my account.” He crawls on top of Silver instead, without bothering to take off his hat, jacket, or shoes. He plucks the cigarette out of Silver’s mouth and takes a long drag, resting his head on Silver’s neck.

The brim of his hat digs into Silver’s ear for a quick second before Silver takes it off and drops it on the floor, too. Then his arms come up around him. “Hey, daddy, is that your revolver in your trousers or are you just happy to see me?”

“It’s my Pocket Hammerless.”

Silver tsks. “I know a fellow who came back from Verdun like that,” he says. “War is hell.”

“Idiot.” Flint sticks the cigarette back in Silver’s mouth and kisses him on his jaw. His unshaven face stings like the smoke in his eyes. “Where’s _your_ piece?”

“Oh,” says Silver through his clouded exhale. “Over there, somewhere.” He points at his cluttered desk with his cigarette. All Flint sees is the evidence of a chaotic mind.

“It’s meant to protect you,” Flint says, scowling. “Did you forget about all the crimes we’re committing? Right this second?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to accidentally shoot off my other foot,” Silver grumbles, stubbing out the cigarette on the threadbare arm of the couch.

They stay silent for the moment. The only window in the office is high up on the wall behind Silver’s desk — a thin, small box of glass built into the cement. A shaft of light shines down directly on them, warming Flint’s back more than he needs, especially with Silver’s hands down there, too. Tucked under Silver’s chin the way he is, he can only see Silver’s desk, the manic display of a man who only has a vague definition of the word _professional_ , right down to the wilting orchid plant beside an empty brown bottle Flint knows Silver hadn’t been drinking from. He’d bought himself the flower because he’d seen one in an office once, he’d told Flint, and it had pissed him off so much for a reason he hadn’t felt like explaining. Whatever Silver had been doing in that office, he’d walked out with the notion that one day, he’d be a man with his own office, and he would buy his own plant with the specific purpose of watching it die a slow, miserable death. No one can see Flint looking at this flower, now. Silver can’t see his face. He allows his affection to freely shine.

“Are we all set for tomorrow?” he asks pointlessly. He’d be the first to know if they aren’t.

Silver hums, and then purrs as Flint starts idly rubbing his chest through his shirt. He rises up a little on his hips, but there’s no real urgency. They haven’t had much alone time in the last couple weeks, but they’re too tired for it now. Inside the factory, men talk and bang around as they work, the sound of a productive workforce. Outside the factory, the few crickets are early for their cue, singing to the setting sun, the sound of an emerging night. Eleanor had asked to see him after sundown.

“Everyone should have a grand ol’ time tomorrow,” Silver says, toying at the hair around Flint’s neck. “And I’ll be having a grand ol’ time sleeping off this stress. I thought crime was supposed to be _easier_ than working a straight job.”

“What?” Flint rises to look at him. “You’re coming tomorrow.”

Silver blinks at him. “I’m coming tomorrow.”

“I’ve already arranged for my tailor to meet you here around noon.”

“Your tailor,” Silver repeats.

“Yeah,” says Flint. “My tailor. I’m not running some fucking dive here, doll. It’s black tie, strictly for your big debut. You aren’t walking around in a three-cent suit any place where I’ll have to look at you.”

“ _My_ debut?”” Silver’s eyes are wide. “I ain’t some fucking debutante, Flint.”

“No,” says Flint. He bites Silver’s bottom lip, lets his lips drag down over his coarse chin. When he looks back, Silver’s eyes are no longer wide. They’re barely open now. “You’re my guy. We’re gonna have you looking so sharp we’ll be using your jawline to split hairs. I got a reputation to uphold, and it’s not walking into my club with some sad schmuck on my arm.”

“Oh…” Silver trails off, looking down at said arm, still pressed tight around his chest. His cheekbones are so red, Flint wonders if he should step on the brakes or just speed right through the stop signal without looking and hope for the best.

But no one’s ever accused Flint of being a sensible driver. He rubs his cheek against Silver’s, letting the corners of their open mouths graze. “Gonna make you look real swell, I promise. Get you prim, shaved nice and smooth for me.”

Silver shudders, holding onto Flint tight, and when Flint moves his face closer to his mouth again, he can feel the edges of a smile. “Well, hell. I’ve never been to a joint as fancy as yours. Might need some assistance getting myself ready.”

“Is that so?” Flint stops rubbing their faces. He leans up, getting a good look at the fresh pink flush to Silver’s cheek, knowing he has his own to match. He runs his hand over Silver’s mouth, fingers over the softer edge of his mustache, palm on the prickle from under his chin. Silver licks at the lines on his palm, like he’s tasting Flint’s whole future. There’s nothing Flint wants to do more than grab a clean shaving kit. He wants to warm that perfect face with a hot towel, lather him up with sweet, delicate soap, and slowly, so slowly, move his sharpest blade against the wide sky of Silver’s cheeks. He wants to be breathing in Silver’s every exhale, he wants Silver’s eyes on him with such intense, close focus while he works. He wants to make Silver _smooth._

Of course, someone knocks on the door.

Silver stiffens under him, but Flint doesn’t move except to let go of Silver’s face. He looks over his shoulder at the door. “What?”

Which Billy incorrectly takes to mean a welcome. “Oh,” he says, blinking at them. He’d held the door open wide as though to come in, but after a second’s thought, closes it so only his head is sticking through. “Sorry, boss. You just… don’t want to keep your next meeting waiting.”

“I suppose not,” Flint says. “I’ll be right there.”

Once Billy’s gone, Flint sighs, dropping his forehead onto Silver’s collarbone.

Hesitantly, Silver asks, “What’s your next meeting?”

Flint sighs again, watching his breath shift the hairs on Silver’s chest visible over the top of his undershirt. “One I’ve been putting off for too long.”

He looks back up at Silver, who kisses him gently. Perhaps he is getting the hang of _professional_ after all. He knows better than to keep kissing Flint for too long or for too hard, or else he’ll never make it to his appointment on time.

His body creaks like an empty ship when he crawls off Silver and stands. Silver hands him his hat, but otherwise doesn’t move from the couch.

“Will I see you again?” Silver asks. “I mean, before tomorrow night?”

Flint thinks about it, but tries hard not to think too deeply about it. “Probably not, I’ll be at the club all day tomorrow getting ready.” Keeping the distillery not too close from the club had seemed like a smart idea, once upon a time. He holds Silver’s chin to better keep his gaze, running his thumb over Silver’s bottom lip. “You’re gonna have to get yourself cleaned up alone this time, I’m afraid. Tomorrow night, though…”

“Tomorrow night…” Silver grins. “Chop suey?”

This is the danger in John Silver, Flint knows. He’s seen men fall, seen them fail, all because of that screwy connection between a cock and a heart.  He never thought that would be him. Not anymore, anyway. But when he’s looking into Silver’s eyes, he doesn’t remember the lie.

When he looks at Silver and thinks, _This’ll be a piece of cake_ , Flint, for the moment, believes it.

 

* * *

 

Eleanor Guthrie looks a little browner, a little blonder, a little meaner since returning from the Caribbean. Evidently, the last couple of weeks in the sunshine hadn’t been relaxing ones.

“I heard from a lot of my clients the last few weeks.” She pours herself a tall glass of something amber and expensive. “I don’t recall hearing from you once.”

Eleanor is a lot like Atlantic City. She's the salt in the air and the painted billboard that point you right in the direction of a bad decision. She's the bright city lights that cast the darkest, most deadly shadows. 

She dresses like a man so she can do business like a man. It’s all pleated slacks and wide ties tucked into her button down. Her bob is short and sleek and dangerous like a man’s, finger waves curling like so many scythes near the arches of her perfectly pointed brows. She even downs her liquor like a man, without ever enjoying what she risks her whole life to get. But the pistol in her hand is all dame, the ivory-plated handle etched with a flower looking extra pale against her tanned skin. The black, evil hole at the end of said piece looks neither man nor woman. It just looks eager to kill him.

It takes everything Flint has not to reach for his own sidearm. She’d waited until he’d sat down — at her insistence — before pulling on him. If he even tried, the arms of the chair would slow him down a little, and the bullet of her gun would slow him a lot.

So, instead, he smiles. He feels like Silver when he does it. “Did you miss the sound of my voice, Miss Guthrie?”

“Cut the bullshit,” she says. “I know you don’t go for that sort of thing, and neither do I.”

“I might be persuaded,” Flint says. “You fill out that suit awful nice.”

Slowly, she pulls back the hammer on her gun.

Flint raises his hands. “C’mon, Eleanor. You know I wasn’t actually looking.”

“Then tell me,” she says, putting her empty glass down on the desk, “what the fuck you _have_ been doing?”

Behind Flint, one of her men stands at the door on the inside of the room. If the bird’s stare gets any heavier, Flint’s back might break. On the other side of that door are probably ten other birds, all with a gaze ready to snap the rest of his bones. But Eleanor likes to keep her fingers on her own triggers. It’s why she travels all the way down to the Bahamas when her seemingly legitimate — but exceptionally illegitimate — import and export business gets overrun by the Coast Guard. She and Flint have the same goals, but they work at them from completely different angles. She’s trying to keep the blood on her hands while he’s desperately trying to wash it off.

They’d been friends, once upon a time.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think I’ve done, and I’ll tell you how off you are.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, could you put the piece away, please?” He leans forward in the chair, closer to the gun. “It’s not like you don’t have the upper hand here.”

Her look is colder than all the diamonds she can afford, but refuses to wear. “No matter what I do, no matter what I accomplish, no matter who I kill or who I pay off, one thing will always be made clear to me by men who look just like you — I’ll never have the upper hand.”

“Well, you’ve always had it with me,” says Flint honestly. “Please, huh? Don’t make me get killed by a gun I bought you.”

Eleanor stares at him for a long moment, face unreadable, before pushing the hammer of her piece back up and lowering it. She doesn’t holster it, though. “That’s always been the problem with you, Flint,” she says. “Everything’s always too personal with you.”

Flint thinks about the second night, back at his apartment, when his new bootlegger had upended his flask of illegal bathtub hooch made from a recipe stolen out of a burning building onto his own cock for Flint to suck off, and thinks she might have a point about that.

Things had certainly become less personal between him and Eleanor over the years, ever since she’d taken over her father’s business the same night her father got fitted for a new pair of cement loafers. Flint had been a hired gun back then, when he’d come back from the War and the only two things he’d known coming back was fear and death. He’d been a good killer, but when he’d told her he’d wanted to step back from it all, when he’d woken up one morning and realized the fear wasn’t keeping him warm anymore, she hadn’t been the most pleased, to say the least. She’d thought he’d change his mind one day and stuck him running one of her low-down joints.

All of a sudden, he’d felt like a person again. He’d spruced the place up real nice, and when he’d had enough money to take a controlling interest of the The Walrus, Eleanor had smiled and shaken his hand and called them partners. He’d seen her give this smile to her father’s former clients, now her own clients, and he knew what she really thought of them. It’s been like that ever since.

“I got myself a brewer,” Flint says, because there’s no point in trying to be sly about it. If she wants him shot, by God a bullet will find its way to him. “Local boy, met him the night the _Ranger_ got pinched. He’s fresh, and only brews for me, it’s in his contract. I can’t keep affording to close up shop every time the Feds get a wind in your sails.”

She looks at him for a long, heart-stopping moment. She finally sits down. “You really are something else, y’know that, Flint? For a minute, I kinda hoped you _had_ sold me out to the Coast Guard.” She pours herself another drink and, worryingly, pours one for Flint, too. “But you didn’t, did you? All your smarts, all your skills, all that fucking brutality, and a set of balls that sinks ships and makes coppers all along the Eastern seaboard tremble in their bunks, and it all dwindles down to being a two-bit shopkeep. What a fucking waste.” Once again, she lets her liquor hit the back of her throat without touching her tongue.

Flint doesn’t touch his. “I just want to be self-reliant,” he says. “Surely you can appreciate that?”

Eleanor nods. “Sure. But I appreciate my money more, y’know. Once you’re on the out with me, you’re out for all of it. I don’t offer package rates, you understand?”

Police protection. It’s not unsurprising. Billy’s already been putting his feelers out for some local fuzz looking to make double dime by looking the other way. Once a cop is crooked, there’s nothing liable to straighten him out again. It’ll cost him a pretty penny more than he pays Eleanor, but it’s a necessary expense. “I’ll figure something out,” he tells her. “I can be very cute when I want to be.”

“It’s a shame this isn’t one of those times,” she says dryly, reaching across the desk for Flint’s untouched drink. “You better make sure that contract is air-tight and this bird has a healthy dose of fear of you. I’m no fan of competition. Hell, why’d you think I burnt up Singleton’s distillery?”

Flint blinks. Very quickly, he smiles. It’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He never asked, is the thing. He never got around to it. He doesn’t even know for sure Silver was in the crew that torched Singleton’s place, except that Flint absolutely knows he was. Silver had just finished working for Eleanor when he’d sauntered over to him on a hot summer’s night, the edges of him still singed with that particular burning building aroma, with a recipe in his head Eleanor had gone to great lengths to rid this planet of. Because Eleanor Guthrie doesn’t like competition.

There’s no way Eleanor is on first-name basis with the dirty, evil-eyed men she hires for a job like that. She probably never once saw their faces. She’s too smart for that.

And Flint is very, very stupid.

“It’s Walrus-branded hooch only.” Flint’s smile is all teeth. “It’s only a competition if you’re in the game. And I’m not playing anything.”

“Well, take my advice,” Eleanor says. She places her gun on the desk. The angle of the barrel is pointing towards his stomach, but he feels like it’s directed right at his godforsaken, traitorous crotch. “From one business owner to another. Everyone’s always playing something, and if you think you’re not playing too, that’s the only guarantee you’ll lose.”

 

* * *

 

Flint watches everybody having a good time from the window of his office. It’s been awhile since he’d opened up the club, and his crowd had been suffering for weeks in this August swelter without anything to quench their thirst. They’ve been going now for a couple hours, and they’re all dancing like their lives depend on it. The band’s really jazzed up, too. The thumping ragtime beat makes the dust on Flint’s office floor rattle like stones in a gutter. Everyone’s shoulders are so loose, Flint expects clothes to start slipping to the floor at any moment.

He keeps his eyes on the entrance. Silver isn’t here yet.

The Walrus sits just on the edge of downtown, close enough to the crowded playhouses and arcades that his customers don’t arouse any suspicion, but tucked away in the alley of an alleyway, surrounded on all side by brick, busted windows, and shadows, so those uninvited never wander in. It had been a small garment factory once upon a time, before the war. During it, the Army had packaged MREs before being shipped out, which explains the taste of sawdust Flint remembers so distinctly from his foxhole. It had sat empty until the laws changed, and the Guthries had swooped in to make use of it.

The club had a wide dance area, built a couple feet lower into the floor. On the side opposite his office was the stage, where the band — Hal Gates and His Orchestra — are currently threatening the whole infrastructure of the place. Discolored bottles, mostly empty for show, shake behind the bar, which is stocked with coffee, matches, pickled onions, and only one brand of liquor that, so far, hasn’t made anyone blind yet. Round tables crowd the walls of the joint, on the off-chance someone wants to actually have a conversation with someone else.

It probably could have used a good cleaning before they opened up tonight. The place is sweltering and smokey and rocking like a ghost ship, and despite the way his stomach is twisted up in knots, he’s happy to see the place full again.

A knock on the door, so faint he wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been by the window. “Yeah?” he calls, not looking away.

Billy sticks his head in. The sound of drums and trombones is no longer muffled, and Flint feels each beat and pull like multiple lacerations. Billy’s brow bends with sweat and concern. “You don’t normally stay up here all night. Anything I should know about?”

Flint’s about to tell him to mind his own fucking business, when movement downstairs catches his eye — somehow distinguishable despite all the other movement. Silver is here.

“Mind your own fucking business,” Flint says, grabbing his white jacket off his coat rack and following Billy out, locking his office door behind him. They head down the rickety spiral staircase, before Billy disappears. Flint has never figured out where he goes when the club is opened, but he knows wherever it is, he’s not enjoying himself.

Silver’s standing by the door still, near the edge of the dance floor, surveying the place with an anxious expression. Flint approaches — slowly. Silver hasn’t found him yet, and he wants to see what Silver is thinking. He also wants to see Silver. His tailor had done a well decent job. Flint can tell by Silver’s high level of discomfort.

His tail coat fits him beautifully, filling out his broad shoulders and emphasizing his narrow waist. It’s too hot for a vest and gloves, and Silver’s hands twitch like he’s looking for something to hold, or something to conceal. His neck looks especially tan pressed against the stark white of his bowtie. The bright lines of his satin lapels shine with his slicked back hair, and Flint slides his gaze effortlessly down the line they make to his long legs and single waxed oxford. The wood of his left foot looks especially out of place, and Flint would guess anything Silver is grateful for the false leg for the first time in his life.

The anxiety on Silver’s face grows as he continues to survey the joint. He even takes a step back towards the door. But then he finally sees Flint approaching from the side, and all the tension cuts out of his body like a man let off the rack. He smiles at Flint.

Flint had anger, earlier. He hadn’t slept, staring up at the ceiling in his office all night, _wondering_ all the time about Silver, about Eleanor, about his own stupid fucking eagerness at something _better_ that he hadn’t once considered it might be too good to be true. He’d invented every possible angle of Silver screwing him over, of Eleanor finding out and killing them both, of Silver and Eleanor working together to fail him. He’d discarded most of them, because he doesn’t think he’s important enough in her eyes to con this largely. But there’s still some bigger picture he’s not seeing, and he hates to admit it because she’s something of an evil person, but Eleanor had been dead right when she’d said he makes it all too personal, because Silver is smiling nervously, toying at the shiny cufflinks Flint had left with his tailor to give to Silver, and Flint can’t remember a single fear he’s ever had maybe in his whole stinkin’, godforsaken life.

“I knew you’d have me overdressed,” Silver says instead of _hello_. “Why’d you doll me all up in this penguin suit? Most of the fellas in here are in their soft-fronts.” And then he holds out his hand for Flint to shake.

Silver has never been to The Walrus before. Flint doubts he’s ever stood beneath a chandelier a day in his life. He’s not above taking risks, but it’s clear he’s lived a life where knows to play it safe first, when he doesn’t have all the details.

Right now, Flint’s just fine filling him in. He takes Silver’s extended hand and drags him in closer, kissing him deeply beside a crowd of dancers and drinkers who aren’t paying them the slightest bit of attention.

Silver kisses back for a second before breaking away, eyes wide, face flushed. He glances around, all wired up nerves, but he doesn’t shake Flint’s hand off him.

Flint grins dangerously. It’s like when he used to play with the straight birds to startle them when they’d first joined his crew. It’s like when he’d crowded Silver up against a brick wall and Silver had crowded him right back. “You think I’d let anyone start anything with me in here, doll? This is _my place_.” He pulls Silver in closer, and Silver lets himself be pulled. “Besides, take a look around, kid. I only allow the _right_ kind of people in here.”

Silver looks, his freshly shaven cheek against Flint’s less-than. He’d been too busy looking for Flint to notice much else before, but now, Flint watches Silver taking it all in. Men and women holding each other close or throwing each other around, silk-covered legs and shoes of every shape and size shining, and every so often a couple of dames pressed together in a collision of taffeta and chiffon, or two guys holding hands and sharing a glass of hooch together, only sometimes remembering to use the glass. Flint watches Silver look harder, and sees that some of the women clinging to a fella’s arm are tall and beautiful, with white powder dabbed on their adam’s apple, that some of the men talking loudly at the table beneath Flint’s office have round, soft faces behind their bright monocles and sharp collars.

And over on the bandstand, Hal Gates and His Orchestra sing a faster, wilder version of that ever popular song.

“ _You go to give your girl a kiss in the hall, but instead you find you’re kissing her brother Paul! Ma’s got a sweater up to her chin, Papa’s got a girdle holding him in - those masculine women and feminine men!”_

“Aw, hell,” Silver says, smiling back at Flint. “If I’d have known it was that kind of joint, I would have complimented your suit earlier.” Silver grabs him by his white lapels and dives into his ear. “You’re looking _swell_ , boss.”

Flint lets Silver’s voice slide over him like a spotlight, and he knows he’s got lines he’s meant to say but all he can feel is that white, buzzing heat. Lord, it had been a _while_ since he’d had Silver pressed closer than teeth in a clenched jaw. He smells his own aftershave on Silver’s neck and he might get dizzy with it, but then someone jostles into them, because they’re standing right on the edge of the dance floor, and Flint remembers the script half a second too late.

“Let’s get a drink,” he says, tugging Silver by his nice new jacket.

“Oh good. That means no one’s died yet?”

Flint’s heart jumps, turning to Silver sharply. But Silver is distracted again by the whole of The Walrus. His eyes wander over everything like some religious man in a desert — the scuffed dance floor, the yellow lamps with bare fringe on every other table, the gray factory ceiling, the lazy twist of the fans that can’t decide if they want to bring hot air in or take hot air out. But there’s no deviance on Silver’s face, no suspicion, no trace of ulterior motive. Just awe at where he’s standing.

A space clears for them by the bar. Max is there, even though he doesn’t need to be, rubbing the inside of a glass with a clean rag and a single judgemental eyebrow.

Flint suitably ignores it. “Two, would you, Max? This is Mr. Silver, I don’t think you’ve met.”

“Hey.” Silver tears himself away from the dance floor to smile at the bartender. “Good to meet….” He stares at Max with wide eyes, at his high cheekbones and close-cropped hair, and the thin mustache drawn on in pencil above his full lips.

Max’s eyebrow gets even more judgemental. He slaps his rag over his shoulder, looking at Flint in disbelief. “He really is fresh, James,” he says, but with his accent it sounds like _Shahmes._ “You pick him up at a garden party or something?”

“Max is an ex-pat, moved here from Paris after the war,” Flint says to Silver, ignoring him. “He handles booking the talent, and keeps everything on the floor running smoothly, so I don’t have to.”

Silver continues to blink. “Hi,” he says faintly.

Max rolls his eyes. “Two, you say? You sure he’s old enough?” But he leaves to go fetch a fresh bottle, Silver staring dumbly after him.

“....was that….”

A man trying to play Flint would know better to try and fake such surprise. Hell, a man trying to play Flint would probably have researched his club a little better. It’s no confirmation, but Flint lets himself enjoy the earnest curiosity a bit longer.  “His passport and birth certificate say _Maxine_ , if that’s what you’re wondering,” Flint says lowly. Max isn’t anywhere nearby, but he’s learned the hard way he’s _always_ got someone listening. “When I met him, he still wore skirts in the daytime, when he had to, and this was just a club thing. But now he doesn’t bother to change, and I got no problem with it. He told me once he’d rather wear trousers or nothing at all, and the way most of the broads throw themselves at him in this place, it’s as much the latter as the former. You might want to reattach your lip there before moths start flying in.”

Silver snaps his mouth shut, face red. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away. “I was just surprised. I wasn’t expecting —”

“Queers?” Flint interrupts.

Silver tilts his head as he looks at Flint. His curiosity is back, but there’s something wary and knowing in it that rattles Flint. Then, he touches Flint on his collar, thumb grazing below his ear, and smiles slowly at him. “I wasn’t expecting to ever be in a public spot where I would ever be allowed to do _this._ ”

Flint smiles. He’s about to tell Silver the only reason Eleanor gave him this club was because he was the only one on her crew who wanted to do _this_ , and about how Max and Eleanor used to be a thing before it went the way things usually went with Eleanor, but then that reminds him of _Eleanor_ and his heart seizes up again.

He leans in close. “We need to talk.”

The embarrassment is gone from his face, though the red tinge remains. “Oh?” He smiles. “You want some, doll?”

Too _fucking_ personal. “No,” Flint says, meaning _yes_. “We need to _talk_.”

And then Silver’s face has _no_ color. “Oh.” He stiffens, his hand withdrawing. If he had to guess, this is the straightest Silver’s back has been since Berlin. “Is everything okay?”

Possibly, it is. Equally possible, everything is shit. But Flint has managed to keep things professional for exactly three seconds, and the idea of taking Silver out of the sparkle of the night at this moment is suddenly unbearable.

“Dance with me,” he says.

Silver blinks at the sudden shift. “What?”

“Dance,” says Flint. “We can talk and dance at the same time. We’re Army men, we know how to be efficient.” He grabs Silver’s wrists and begins to walk them to the dance floor.

Silver looks out at the dancers, swinging each other by whatever limb is most handy. “Flint,” he says. “I can’t dance.”

“‘Course you can. Come—”

“ _No._ ” Silver stops walking, and so Flint stops too. “I _can’t. Dance._ ” And he taps Flint as gently as he can in the ankle with his wooden leg, face tight and angry.

“You can sway, can’t you?” Flint looks over at the band and raises his hand. Hal Gates sees him immediately, and when Flint gestures with his hand, the song quickly transitions into something slower and sweeter. Everyone takes a collective opportunity to catch their breath and hold each other up.

“I don’t—” And Christ, if Silver really is on the up and up, Flint’s got to teach him how to look less _young_ , or else he’ll be eaten alive by this life. “I’ve _never_ danced before. Even before — this.”

Flint takes his hand, draws his fingers over Silver’s palm, up his wrist, beneath his crisp new shirt. “You’ve been on a boat before?”

Silver stares at Flint’s hand, and lets himself be led once more. “Sure. I mean. On the steamer to Europe.”

“It’s the same.” They walk down the steps to the dance floor, and Flint draws him in again until they’re cheek to cheek, one hand around his waist, the other in Silver's hand. On all sides of them are lovers of all kinds. “Just sway.”

They sway. Silver keeps his false leg planted, as though he doesn’t want it making too much noise. Like it would be audible over the lilting flutes and twanging guitar and the gentle hum of song. For a moment, there’s not enough space for anything to fit between them, certainly not Eleanor, or Singleton, or a burning match, or a busted law, or Izzy Einstein or Moe Smith or President fucking Coolidge. And into his ear, Silver murmurs, “I used to get seasick all the time.”

Flint laughs, and it feels like his heart is breaking. Because he’s never known something to not be too good to be true, but things are almost always as bad as he expects. He needs to look in Silver’s eyes when they talk.

He runs his hand up Silver’s back, and blinks at what he feels. Or rather, doesn’t feel. “Are you _still_ not wearing a piece? I told my tailor to fit you with a holster.”

Silver shrugs, looking up at the chandeliers. “It’d ruin the lines”

“Oh, so _now_ you are the fucking debutante?”

He smiles, tilting his head back down to watch his feet move. “Is this what we’re talking about, then?”

He doesn’t _know_. Flint has to keep telling himself that. He doesn’t _know_ what’s true. Once he knows, it’ll be better, even if he learns what he doesn’t want to know. But he supposes it’s for the best, for Silver not to have a gun on him. Just in case.

“I saw Eleanor Guthrie last night,” he says. “First chance I had to tell her we were parting ways.”

Silver looks up. “Is that why you were so sore last night? Did it not go okay?”

“About as well as expected.” They keep moving, but Flint leans in, the way a lover would, and says to Silver’s shoulder, “She let mention she was the one who ordered Singleton’s distillery burned.”

He wouldn’t have felt Silver pause if they hadn’t been dancing so closely, so slowly. Silver’s voice is soft and flavorless when he asks, “Is that right?”

“ _Hell_.” Flint bends back to look Silver in the eye again. It’s a good thing they’re not doing anything complicated with their movements, but Flint can barely keep shifting. “Do you not understand the situation you’ve put us in, or did you mean to do it all along?”

“What situation?” Silver asks loudly. His baby blues narrow, darting around before asking quieter, “What do you think is happening here?”

“I don’t fucking _know_ what I think,” Flint hisses. He doesn’t want to call attention to them, so he pulls Silver in closer, and they get back to dancing. “I’ve thought of _everything_. What I _know_ is that you were one of the men hired by Eleanor Guthrie to rid the world of a liquor recipe and the means to make said liquor, and rather than doing so, you took the business she wanted gone and gave it to _me_ , one of her clients, of which I am no longer, so that’s doubly fucking her over.”

“Okay.” Silver nods, his hair brushing the soft edges of Flint’s eye. “Yeah. That all sounds about right.”

“ _Fuck_ —”

“But you’ve got a fucking screw loose if you think she knows who I am,” Silver interrupts. His hands are tight on Flint’s shoulders. “The man who hired me never even told us why we were doing it, but he’d implied it was on the dollar of one of Singleton’s other, more masculine enemies. Admittedly, it had sounded like bullshit even then, but I obviously wasn’t going to raise a flag about it.”

A lot of people _do_ hate Singleton. But still. “If she finds out, though, if she ever figures out what you’ve done, what _we’ve_ done, it’s over for us. Eleanor holds grudges the way most dames hold babies. She nurtures them. And she hates competition. Why the hell would you take such a risk, coming to me, and not one of the other hundred schmucks in this city I’d rather she kill?”

Silver is silent for a moment. The band keeps playing something slow, and the partners not lost in each other’s eyes take the opportunity to buy more drinks.

“I know we haven’t exactly… talked much,” Silver says eventually. “And when we have, I’m not exactly a fan of opening up. But I still would have thought it was obvious what happened, and why I made the risk. Don’t you get it? You were supposed to be _practice._ ”

Flint stops moving again. “What?”

Silver sighs, looking down at their feet. “I never thought —” He raises his head. “I was nothing, before. I was no one. I’m still no one. But, this chance fell into my lap and I thought, for one night, maybe I could be someone. I only had to pretend to be someone for an _hour_ , that’s it. I could do that. Because yeah, I knew how to brew, it’s not _hard_ , but the plan had been to just sell the recipe and get the fuck out of dodge. I didn’t think I could be _in_ it. And you — I thought, start out with the toughest motherfucker in the business. I’d seen you in the papers, I knew your reputation. I thought, if I could offer it to _you_ , and survive the encounter, I wouldn’t be afraid to sell it off to any klots looking to get his foot in the door. You weren’t supposed to say _yes_. You weren’t supposed to _see_ me, to…”

Silver looks miserable, which is how Flint knows this isn’t a lie.

“I just wanted _dough_ ,” Silver continues with a sigh. “I just wanted a way to survive for a little while longer without worry. I didn’t know I wanted anything else. I didn’t know I wanted a—”

“A what?” Flint strokes up Silver’s back, pressing him in tight, putting his hand wear a gun ought to be.

Silver says, “A _partner._ ”

All the things that had kept Flint up last night have fled, and now he just wants to rest his head on the hard planes of Silver’s stomach, which has no right to be as soft as it is. Before the War to End All Wars, he’d had so many dreams. During the War, he’d had only one. And afterwards, he’d been eyes-streamingly, heart-rockingly awake this whole time. Perhaps that’s why this thing has struck him like a fierce blow to the back of his head. It’s no reasonable explanation, but Silver has pressed his lids shut with a kiss each, and he can dream once again.

“Hell,” he says, but differently this time. “You crazy yid, you’re a real piece of work, y’know that?” But he kisses Silver’s cheek, to let him know it’s a piece he likes. “Next time, _tell me_ this shit so I can at least go into a situation with a crook you’ve screwed over with the right tools. And some back-up. I don’t like being caught off-guard.” Except he’s constantly caught off-guard these days, and he doesn’t always hate it.

“You didn’t tell me where you were going.” Silver scowls, hand all over Flint’s neck like a blind man reading a newspaper. “Maybe I would've said something had I _known._ ”

“Oh, _maybe_?” They haven’t been dancing for a while, just holding each other close, and Flint sees no reason they need to do that before anyone but each other and God. He pulls him towards his staircase that leads to some privacy. “You wanna know where I’m going now?”

Over the bar, a single red light bulb turns on. Flint stops.

The bulb turns off. The music trickles like rainwater at the end of a storm. No one else has noticed anything but the quiet. Then, the red light turns back on.

Flint drops Silver’s hand. His confusion is the last thing he sees before he darts to his staircase.

Over the bemused murmuring, he shouts, “Raid! _Raid!_ Everyone out! Through the back, _now!_ ” And the place explodes like Verdun. He maybe should have waited until he’d reached the stairs before calling out, because now the crowds race to the secret exit behind the bandstand, and Flint has to fight to make it to the stairs. The second light means they’ve only got about forty-five seconds before the police reach the doors, and it should take them only another ten to get it opened. Another twenty before they make it to his office.

He reaches the stairs just as he feels a pull on the back of his jacket. He turns to see Silver, panicked and angry. “What the fuck are you doing? We have to go!”

“What are _you_ doing?” Flint shakes off his hand. “Are you crazy? Get the hell out of here!”

“No!” Silver grabs his arm, and even gets him off the first step. “Not without you!”

The laws are all backwards, y’see. Flint could only get in trouble for selling it, if they can’t prove he also made it. But if any of his boys get caught alongside Silver, they might easily point the finger at him being the bootlegger. And selling it will get you a hefty fine and a few months, but Silver could get five years if he’s caught.

He grabs Silver by the face and kisses him hard, but not nearly long enough to savor it. Then he pushes him away, and feels guilty about how Silver stumbles on his false leg. “I’m sorry, doll. Captain’s gotta go down with the ship.” He nods to Billy, who’s standing right behind him. Billy grabs Silver by the arm and starts pulling him towards the back with the last few people making their escape.

“No! Let go! Flint!”

Flint closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to see Silver disappear with the wave of desperate dancers. He gives himself a second, until the ghost of a kiss fades like a kick of whiskey, before turning around and rushing upstairs.

He manages to destroy most of the evidence about his dealings before the cops kick the door in.

 

* * *

 

_Two and a half months later_

 

Flint feels a little ridiculous putting his evening suit back on, but it’s between this and his prison denim, which he doesn’t even get a choice to leave with anyway. The guards at the Burlington County Jail snicker at him as he pulls on his white braces, and they snicker harder when he throws his bow tie around his neck. He doesn’t do it up, but he makes sure to tuck it under his collar, because he isn’t an animal. He looks both guards in the eye as he hooks his white jacket over his arm, and he keeps looking until they realize his whole outfit cost more than a month of their lousy paychecks. They lose their snickers faster than they lost their grade school sweethearts, and Flint lets his shiny oxfords squeak his _fuck you_ as he walks out the prison.

When he’d gone in, all he’d had in his pockets were a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. When he leaves, all he’s got in there are his hands.

He’s expecting Billy to be waiting for him. He’s the only one Flint’s been in contact with for the last seventy-five days, although the conversations were often short. They don’t know how to speak to each other without incriminating themselves.

He’d only mentioned Silver when he’d asked if anyone else got pinched that night, and Billy had only mentioned Silver when he’d said no, Flint’s the only one with rotten luck, except for a few dancers who got turned out the next morning.

Billy had only asked about Silver when, two months ago, he’d wondered aloud if anyone had asked Flint any questions. Flint had blinked with two black eyes and grinned with bruised lips and said sure, they _asked._

He’s all healed up now, for the most part, and he’s out because he had nothing to sing about and someone had covered his hefty fine. That used to be Eleanor’s job, and probably that’s why he feels a little jittery as he walks out into the sunshine a free man again. He knows he owes _someone_ , but he’s not sure who.

He’d spent most of his time thinking about the business, because business is just cold enough to keep you from getting too hot behind bars. He’d tried to figure out what had happened that night, and what is going to happen next. What he _wants_ to happen next.

When he leaves the jailhouse in his finery, ready to discuss the next move, he expects Billy to be waiting for him, ready to hear it.

Instead, Silver is there, leaning against the side of Flint’s 528 Packard Runabout like an especially fetching hood ornament. His car shines in the mid-October sun, like someone had spent the last two months caring after it. Approaching now, the hunter green car paint broad against the body, the soft cream canvas top, the copse of red-orange trees surrounding the prison, and Silver’s black hair and long legs in a brown suit looking as soft as a wild animal’s hide and just as dangerous to touch — it’s like he’s walking inside an immense, unknown forest.

He’s wearing a fedora Flint thinks is familiar, the same color as his suit and tilted just so over his face. His eyes track him, looking over his ridiculous get-up with bright eyes. He pushes off the car to meet Flint.

“Hope you weren’t just coming from a wedding in there,” he says instead of _hello_. And he holds out his hand to shake.

This time, Flint takes it, with the slightest hesitation. He can feels the eyes in the watchtower on them, and he doesn’t know if Silver knows he’s being smart in keeping his face shadowed. He’s never shaken Silver’s hand before and he’s surprisingly good at it, solid grip, his palm warm and dry. More professional than he’d expect. Flint hasn’t thought about his skin in seventy-five days. He’s a little disappointed to see Silver has shaved his face for him.

“You haven’t been driving my car around this whole time, have you?” he asks, dropping his hand.

Silver reaches into his pocket and tosses him the keys. “Nah,” he says, circling around to the passenger side, chin still tilted down. “I’m lousy at it. Figured you might want to.”

Flint’s heart lurches, because Silver had figured right. Except he can’t remember ever talking about his car to Silver, so it just might be something about him Silver noticed, and he maybe should have thought about Silver every once in awhile in the last seventy-five days. Because there’s a whole helluva lot to Silver and it’s threatening to overwhelm him now.

There’s no freedom like that of being at sea. He’d grown up along the ocean, and at the last minute he’d decided Army over Navy, after a little voice in his ear warned that a war might taint his relationship with the water. Sailing for the Guthries had almost made his killing for them worth it, until that had been taken from him, too. One reason he’d wanted to run his own club had been to earn enough for his own boat someday.

Driving is the next best thing. The course isn't as unlimited as the sea, as he has roads and laws to obey, but behind the wheel, he gets a similarly perfect feeling of control he only knows at the helm of something moving fast.

He tosses his jacket into the backseat before sliding in. Then he closes his eyes and runs his hands over the steering wheel for a moment, absorbing the heat from the leather on his back.

The car rocks slightly when Silver closes his passenger door. Even with the windows down, the scent of his own aftershave on Silver’s neck is tangible.

“Um,” says Silver. “Are you alright?”

Flint opens his eyes. In front of him is that miserable stone building and nothing else, so he gets the car started. He turns to look over his shoulder to back up, and sees Silver frowning at him nervously.

He throws the car into drive and gets them moving. “I’m better now,” he says, tilting his face towards the open window. The wind rushes over him, bringing in the thick aroma of bark and earth. They’re about an hour inland, and he wants to know right away when he’s able to smell the salt in the air again.

Once they’re out of view of the prison, Silver takes off his hat and throws it in the backseat, too. He sighs, running his hand through his hair. “I’m sure there’s a lot you want to talk about, huh?”

There’s so much Flint wants to talk about. He’d even made a list, in his head, because he has certain priorities that need to be addressed in a very particular order. They’re all sitting patiently against the back of his mind like rebels before a firing squad, but he hadn’t accounted for the way his bones would turn to jelly at the first taste of freedom on his tongue. It tastes like car exhaust and cologne.

“In a bit,” he says. “We got a long drive.”

The prison had sat nearer the Pennsylvania border than Atlantic City, and the drive across the state is quiet, with thick tree lines broken up by the occasional farms far in the distance. The winding country road is bumpy, full of rocks and hills, but his Packard handles it a lot better than that crappy paddy wagon he’d been carted in the first time. They let him out on a Sunday morning, and all the farmers have gathered to pray. There’s no sign there’s anyone out in the world but them.

Silver is silent, and Flint cuts a quick glance over to him. Silver’s staring at his hands on the wheel.

Flint flexes his fingers, not wincing at the stretch of cuts and bruises on his knuckles. “Someone wanted to give me a parting gift before I left,” he says. “I didn’t want it, so I gave it back.”

Hesitantly, Silver reaches out. He takes Flint’s right hand off the wheel and slowly brings it to his lips. The kiss is softer than it has any right to be, and Flint can only close his eyes for a second, but he takes it. He lets the hand fall onto Silver’s thigh and he squeezes it a bit, but it makes Silver sigh like a garrote had loosened around his throat.

“Did you miss me, then?” Flint asks.

Silver shifts under his hand, spreading out a little in the front seat. He holds Flint there with two hands, though, just in case he has any ideas about letting go. “I tried to write you a thousand letters, but Billy wouldn’t let me. He said they were too incriminating as they’d be checking your mail.”

“Too professional?”

“Too dirty,” Silver says, with a smile. “Why would I want to talk to you about work, when we got so many better things in common?”  

Flint smirks at him, trailing just a pinky finger along his inseam. Silver runs a thumb between two of his knuckles, gentle over the bruises and down his sore tendons. Christ, Flint loves being free.

They drive like that for awhile, nothing but the sound of the wind and birds singing. It’s hot for October, an Indian Summer day, and if Flint had a hand free he would roll up his sleeves, but he doesn’t, so he can’t. Quietly, his fingers still moving over his injuries, Silver asks, “Did you miss _me_?”

Flint had spent seventy-four nights trying not to think about Silver. He’d stared up at the fading artwork of former prisoners pressed in pencil on paint-peeled walls, stick figures and confessions and guys writing their girl’s names surrounded by stars or crucifixes or bleeding knives. Those fellas don’t get what that’s like, don’t understand what it means to write down the name of someone longed for so freely, without a given thought. That even though they can’t be with her, they can still look down at her name, feel the curve of her S’s and M’s and A’s under their fingertips, can roll it around on their tongues and let it float through the air like cigarette smoke, the smell lingering in their hair and their skin. They don’t know they can be imprisoned any further when they’re already locked up. But Flint knows.

“Honesty,” he says, “I half expected to never see you again.”

“What?” Silver asks. “Why?”

“Didn’t figure you would want to stick around when it got so hot.”

Silver’s thumb stills on his hand. “Of course I do. I’m your guy.”

Trees tower overhead on all sides, and they’re so alone even the birds quiet up for an afternoon siesta. So Flint doesn’t bother to check his mirrors when he pulls over sharply to the side, where the road widens for the inevitable breakdown. Dust surrounds the car like a storm, pouring into the windows like rain, but Flint’s got other things on his mind, like more interesting ways to dirty up the front seat. He leaves the keys in the ignition while he climbs into Silver’s lap, slides his hands into his hair, and kisses that dumb, confused expression right off his perfect mouth.

Silver doesn’t stay dumb for too long, grasping at Flint’s back and kissing him hard. He tastes like that damn pink bubblegum and Flint’s brand of tobacco, his nails scratching down through Flint’s dirty, expensive shirt, and it’s not surprising he hadn’t thought of Silver the whole time he was locked up. He never thinks about breathing either, and he needs it just as much.

“God,” he gasps, rubbing his rough cheek against Silver’s smooth one, hoping to redden him up even more. “I can’t believe I haven’t touched you in seventy-five days.”

“Seventy-nine,” Silver murmurs. He plucks at the top buttons on Flint’s shirt, but only undoes the first two so he can lick at the skin of his collar. “We were too busy to screw beforehand.”

“God,” Flint says again, tilting his head to give Silver more access. “We’re a couple of fucking dummies, aren’t we?”

Silver hums in agreement, tugging Flint’s useless bowtie off and throwing it in the back. “We sure are.” He grins suddenly, eyes sparkling. “ _Captain_ Flint.”

Flint stops. “ _Who?_ ”

Silver grins wider. “One of the cops told a reporter what you said that night, about going down with the ship. They’ve been using it in all the papers now. Bonafide gangster nickname and everything.”

Captain Flint. He scowls. “I was a First Lieutenant in the Army.”

Silver pulls him by the back of his neck, still smiling. “Wait ‘til you hear the nickname Billy’s been spreading about _me.”_ But then Silver’s kissing him again, in that singular way that makes Flint forget his own damn name.

They are pretty stupid to do this now, _here_ , less than thirty minutes from where they’d end up if they’re caught. But if his mind hadn’t lingered here these past months, his body sure had, and he’s just as likely to get them into a crash if he doesn’t shake this loose.

Silver pushes Flint’s suspenders off, and Flint leans back to undo the buttons on his cuffs. It’s too fucking hot for this stiff fucking shirt anyway, the sun beating down on them through the front windshield. Silver must be thinking the same thing because he leans a little closer to kiss the sweat off Flint’s cheek. He murmurs while shuffling out of his own jacket, “Can’t wait to get you home and give you that shave.” And that’s when Flint sees the gun.

Flint freezes, leaning back just enough to look at it properly. Silver also stills. The sits safely in a shoulder holster under Silver’s left arm, positioned at just the perfect height to pull. He can’t tell for certain, but the handle looks just like his own Pocket Hammerless he’d made sure to hide when the fuzz came.

It takes him a second to look away. “Oh, lover,” he says, running his hands over Silver’s neck and cheeks. “What have you been up to these days?”

Silver sighs, turning his mouth into Flint’s palm so he feels the end of it on his skin. Silently, he removes the holster and sidearm together and tosses it into the driver’s seat. “I’ve been keeping the business going for you.”

_"What_ business?” Flint asks. “There’s no club anymore.”

“But there’s booze,” Silver says. “And plenty of thirsty people in the city.”

His stomach drops out of him like a stick grenade, his grip on Silver’s head tightening. “You’re not. You _can’t_. Please, tell me you haven’t been selling to other slingers in town.”

“At a fraction of what Guthrie charged.” Silver grins viciously. “But plenty of interest, which more than covers it. Was enough to keep operations running _and_ get you out the joint.”

“ _Hell_ ,” says Flint, leaning back against the dashboard. “That’s the last fucking thing you should have done! If she finds out —”

“She’ll what? Have me thrown in jail too?” Silver says angrily, tugging him closer again. “You realize she’s the one who set you up that night, right?”

Flint pauses. “I had guessed,” he says, because he had.

“She still figured you were responsible for that business with the Coast Guard back in July. As far as I’m concerned, that makes your promises to her pretty fucking null and void.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but Silver keeps going. “Besides, she played her only hand in the first round, and counted on you being alone. She has no idea where our distillery is, but we know where many of her chief players are. When bullets couldn’t occupy her, a few well-meaning anonymous phone calls to D.A. Rogers have had her tied up for the last month.”

But Flint’s still stuck ten words back. “ _Bullets?_ ” He’d pictured, just last night, laying low for a little while to sort everything out, see what the world is like before figuring out how to step back into it. He hadn’t counted on a fucking gang war waiting for him.

Silver cups his lower back, pressing him even closer. Flint’s surprised by all this, but he can’t figure there’s any other place in the world he’d rather be. Despite the shock, his cock is still hard and straining in his trousers, which only get tighter when Silver digs his nail in again and grins with sharp teeth. “You’re my guy, too. And Eleanor Guthrie might not like competition, but it turns out I’m very good at this game.”

Seventy-five days ago, Silver had been afraid of wearing a piece for fear of shooting off his own foot by mistake. Now, he’s holding Flint in his lap and confessing sweetly to putting holes into people for doing them wrong. It’s startling, and maybe later he’ll mourn the fact that this crummy life has ruined Silver, too, except Silver still chews awful bubblegum and kisses his cuts and _cares_ after him in a way no one has cared in a lifetime.

Flint kisses him again. The jittery feeling he’d felt leaving the prison is gone, replaced entirely by the shaking, loose swirl of anticipation in his gut. He still owes Silver, but he doesn’t think he’ll struggle to pay him back.

And then it’s just a quick, graceless scramble. Silver pops a few buttons in his effort to take off his vest and shirt, and then make tiny _pings_ when they hit the windshield like hail. Flint breaks off the kiss just to enough to remove his undershirt before diving back in. That had been a second too long, so he just pushes Silver’s undershirt up under his arms, and presses a hand against Silver’s hot, wet, heaving stomach.

Silver starts chewing on his neck, blinding pulling at Flint’s belt buckle. “ _God_ , daddy, when I get you home, I’m gonna take care of you so _nice_.” He blows wetly into Flint’s ear, and his whole body shakes. “Gonna treat you real swell, spend the whole rest of this Sunday opening you up for me. Would you like that? When was the last time anyone made you feel good, doll?”

The air in the car is thick like a blanket, concealing them from the world. “You,” he groans. “ _You_ , just you.” Flint never knew he could feel this isolated and yet this _safe_. He never knew safety could feel like _burning_. He slides his hand down Silver’s trousers where he’s even hotter, even wetter, his cock rising to meet his palm like an old friend.

Silver keens, bucking up into his hand. It takes him a moment then to get on with the show, burrowing his face in Flint’s neck while he pumps him slow and even. But then he’s finally able to get Flint’s trousers unbuttoned. It takes a lot of teamwork before Flint’s got them over his ass and shoved halfway down his thighs, but if they’ve learned nothing else, it’s that they make an excellent team. Silver licks a long stripe down Flint’s hand until it’s wet, until Flint’s flushed and dying and about to come apart, before he pushes it back down between them.

Flint takes his own cock in his wet hand, lets it glide over Silver’s and take root. They rut together in that Sunday October swelter, in sync, out of sync, back in sync, nothing fancy — just another version of their one and only dance. It might be faster, sure. Dirtier, rougher, but in their minds, they’re just swaying to the same slow, sweet song that’s been stuck in their heads for seventy-five days.

Silver moans, face rolling over Flint’s chin, his jaw, his neck. He grabs Flint’s free hand, once again brings it to his mouth like he’s trying to shut himself up, and presses an open mouthed kiss right on his palm. He traces every line and wrinkle, still making noise, until he’s got the fleshy pad under his thumb right between his teeth and bites down.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Flint groans, squeezing Silver’s jaw and their cocks. “Fuck, _Silver!_ ” He jerks up once, twice, pressed against all the hard parts of Silver he loves when he comes, panting like the dogs of Hell are after him.

Sweat blinds him and his body twitches with aftershocks, but he’s able to keep his hand moving over Silver, using his own come to make him extra slick. He twists his thumb around the head, does the same thing with his tongue in Silver’s mouth, and holds him while he comes, too. Silver doesn’t yell or grunt or whine when he comes. It’s always with a boneless sob, a damp sigh, relief at a release that always seems to surprise him. His mouth hangs open, letting Flint kiss him through it, unable to do anything but grip Flint’s ass and hold on.

Then he collapses against the leather seat, and since they’ve yet to let go of one another, Flint goes too. They breathe just like how they danced, or how they sailed — with a single, easy sway.

The sun beats down on Flint’s back, and they may be criminals but they aren’t lazy. The Army had beat that out of them, so after a moment they find it in them to pull their pants up and button what few buttons are left. Once that’s done, though, Flint returns to Silver’s chest, resting in the crook of his neck.

“You know,” he says into his ear, “I had every intention of laying low when I got out of the joint.”

“Aw, hell,” Silver murmurs. “I’m happy to lay any way you want me to, sweetheart.”

Then, Silver tenses underneath him, and then he shifts up completely, his back straight. He’s looking over Flint’s shoulder, and when Flint turns his head, he sees a burgundy car slowly easing towards them. Suddenly, like it senses eyes on it, the car sped up, coming right up to them.

In one moment, Silver grabs the door handle and Flint’s arm. In the same moment, Flint grabs the gun off the driver’s seat. In the next, bullets start flying towards Flint’s beloved Packard, but Silver has gotten the door open and they tumble to the ground outside. Flint’s on top of Silver, keeping him pressed low as bullets whizz overhead. He’s got his arms wrapped over Silver’s head while also trying to shake the gun out of the holster, all the while the rattling of two tommy guns burst away, hitting steel and glass and dirt as the other car drives by and keeps going up the road.

Flint finally gets the gun loose and is about to inch over Silver to start firing back, when another car — this one brown — flies down the road, coming from the same direction as the other car. The burgundy one gasses it up and heads down fast the way Flint and Silver came, the brown one hot on its heels, with more bullets coming, but this time not aiming for them.

Flint lifts up on his knees and raises his gun to fire after them anyway, but Silver puts his hand on his arm. “Don’t,” he says, breathing hard. “That’s Dobbs and Joji.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Following them,” Silver says. “Or maybe Muldoon went with Dobbs. I can’t remember how they decided to split up.”

Flint sits down on the dirt., leaning against the car. The other two cars are long gone, the sound of firing disappearing over the rustle of the trees overhead. “Silver,” he says.

Silver sighs, sitting up too. “I figured they’d tried _something_ today,” he says. “We’ve got men lining this road in wait for it. I wasn’t going to take any chances.”

They definitely should move. If nothing else, they’re sitting way too near a jailhouse for this kind of action. But they stay sitting in the dirt. “You had men watching,” Flint says slowly, “and you _still_ let me pull over?”

Silver squints at him, a smile growing on his lips. “Sugar, if you think we’re supposed to be a secret, you should never have asked me for that dance.”

Flint supposes his has a point, but Flint isn’t about to tell him that. He quickly glances over Silver’s shoulder into the damage in the front seat, and then has to shut his eyes. “My _car_ ,” he moans, his heart breaking just a bit.

Silver doesn’t say anything. And when Flint opens his eyes again, Silver is staring down at his feet.

For all his newfound swagger and expensive wool suits, Flint is mildly surprised to notice Silver kept his old wooden leg, the club of the false foot almost matching the color of his trouser leg. Flint doesn’t know why he hadn’t bought a nicer one, a better-fitting one, one that didn’t ache the end of his leg, but it’s a moot point now. Together they stare at the single bullet hole splintered right through, just below where his big toe should be.

“Did you ever wonder,” Silver says, not looking up, “why they sent a one-legged man into a burning building?”

Flint says nothing. Suddenly, the birds are awake — probably stirred by all the gunfire. They scream and sing above them, the difference indistinguishable.

“ _I_ didn’t wonder,” Silver continues. “I was a no-good bum, down on my luck, in desperate need of scratch and grateful to whatever acquaintance of an acquaintance that recommended me for the job. I didn’t even think about it until we were getting out of the car in the dead of night, me with a bunch of guys I’ve never met, and I hear my leg…. clunk on the cement as we try to sneak in. Who would hire a guy like _me_ for a job like this, I wondered then. And then it hit me. You hire a guy like me when you’re hoping someone’ll get _caught_.”

Silver draws his knee up so he can touch the bullet hole in the wood. Flint reaches for his hand to stop him, and instead he just holds it.

“It’s much neater that way, isn’t it?” Silver looks up at him. “To have a fall guy, says he was hired by some mean-looking fella in a suit. Gets your plan to frame your competition for the arson even easier. Or better yet, if your stooge is caught by the flames instead of the cops, you can maybe get a murder charge out of it. You asked me, that last night, why I would risk so much. I didn’t lie, I did want money. But I wanted to do _something_ that would set their whole fucking world alight. All these cops and robbers, playing their games, doing their parts just like they think they should, and they thought _my_ part was just that: either a fall-guy or corpse. To them, I was just a bum. Do you understand me now? I took the risk because I wanted them to account for _me._ ”

Glass clinks as pieces fall from the windshield onto the floor of the car. The dust has finally stopped stirring. The road is silent, and it finally feels like they’re alone again. Flint grabs Silver by the face, pulling him closer.

“And they will,” he says, and kisses him.

He can feel the tension slip from Silver’s expression as he holds him, until that rawness of spite becomes rawness of spirit and flesh, and Silver just looks like Silver again, green but cunning, the kind of snake that lies in the grass, ready to strike as soon as your foot comes down on his back.

“They thought I had no one, and they were right,” Silver says, brushing his lips against Flint’s. “Then they thought you had no one, and they were very, very wrong.”

Flint sighs into him, feeling that sense of safety again that consumes him like a fire. He lets that last brush serve as a parting kiss before leaning away. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” he says, holstering the gun and handing it back to Silver. “We’ve stuck around too long as it is. Hopefully the engine isn’t busted.”

He helps Silver stand, and they quickly brush the broken glass off the front seat before sliding back in. The windshield is still there, clinging to the edges with holes that splinter out like tree rings. The car starts, but Flint’s afraid to go too fast or else the whole thing might cave in.

“We just need to get to the next checkpoint,” Silver says. He reaches into the glove compartment for another cube of his shitty pink gum. “We’ll ditch the car for now, and get someone to tow it into the city so we can fix her up. Then we’ll head someplace to lay low for the night.” He shrugs. “Piece of cake.”

Flint can’t help but scowl at that. He doesn’t want to wonder _how_ many men are lying in wait for them, even if they are on his side. And the idea of leaving his beautiful car in a bush somewhere, riddled with holes, turns his insides to acid. But then he looks over to Silver, just as he blows a big pink bubble. He’d looked so fine when he’d picked Flint up, his shoe shined, his hair neat. Now he’s just a giant rumple, shirt askew, trousers stained, face flushed and ridiculous. Just the way Flint likes him.

“Piece of fucking cake, huh?” he asks as they round a bend. With the new direction, the sun falls right in Silver’s eyes, turning him gold.

The bubble pops. Silver pulls the gum back into his mouth, takes Flint’s hand off the steering wheel, and gives his bruises a sticky kiss. “Would I lie to you?"

* * *

 

 

 


End file.
